


favorable outcomes, drunk on them

by WeAreTomorrow



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes (Downey films)
Genre: Angst, Drama, F/M, M/M, Weddings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-02-08
Updated: 2013-02-08
Packaged: 2017-11-28 15:51:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,669
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/676163
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WeAreTomorrow/pseuds/WeAreTomorrow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You see,” Watson presses on, unsure of what he’s saying, “That would be, uh, yes. Pleasant. Or uncomfortable. The former, hopefully, if you can behave yourself.”</p>
<p>A huff of smoke curls up from a mouth turned down with annoyance. For a moment, Watson allows himself to wonder what Holmes' exasperation would taste like if he stood close enough to breathe it in.</p>
<p>(A little like a favorable outcome.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. part one

XXX

 

part one

 

XXX

 

Watson tells her it's a bad idea. Mary agrees.

 

But her mother insists on it, and in any other situation he would quite agree. But this is their situation--a strange one, always--and the good doctor cannot think of a single favorable outcome to dinner with Holmes.

 

(Dares not think of a favorable outcome with Holmes.)

 

"If he's to be best man at my dear Mary's wedding," her mother says, not unreasonably, "It would be rude of us not to meet beforehand."

 

Watson flicks a desperate look across the table and is met with the reassuring squeeze of a delicate gloved hand.

 

The press of her ring into his hand is uncomfortable, cold.

 

The late Mrs. Morstan is a frail woman, beauty still lingering in the unusual copper of her hair, in the slender curve of her waist. But long, lonely years as a widow and her mournful black dress leach the color from her skin. The high backed chair does nothing to lessen the sever lines of her face or the emerging grey at the temples. She is a looming figure, almost violent in her grief.

 

"I hold you in the highest esteem, Mr. Watson."

 

The words unlock a memory; heat curls in his stomach, a blush creeping up his neck.  His hand twitches away from Mary and he covers the motion smoothly by pouring himself more wine.

 

Across the table, his future mother-in-law declares: "I assure you, whoever you chose will be another welcome addition to the family."

 

Watson swallows past the dryness of his throat and sips at the wine with an agreeable smile. It's a pure deep red, the color of jewerly and spilled blood and reminds him of terribly of Holmes. It's a harmless memory, despite his burning cheeks to the contrary. Just an experiment, Holmes touching two gentle fingers into the virginal flesh of his wrist.

 

 _Abnormal heart rate_ , the detective notes, _does it hurt?_

 

There is no way this will end but badly.

XXX

"Agreed."

 

The doctor blinks astonished at his friend, at the man slouched deep in his favorite armchair, face enjoying his suprise, as if the world were that simple. It isn't, and he wouldn't want it to be. (Which one of them does he mean by that; does it matter?)

 

"Pardon?" Watson asks, feeling ridiculous as his rehearsed speech crumbles to nothing, his reasons and bribery and blackmail.

 

The brick wall of irrefutable Reason and Logic that he's built upon agitated footsteps, pacing in circles late at night with Holmes on his mind, pretending the motion doesn't feel so familiar. Of course, that feels familiar too. Mind heavy with illogical thoughts, unchristian thoughts, but that's only because of the alcohol and the sleep deprivation. Murder, that's what he's thinking about, terribly unchristian of him.

 

Across the table, Holmes taps his fingers against his leg impatiently. Slender musician’s fingers, though too rough to belong to a proper musician.

 

His wets his suddenly dry lips, realizing that Holmes is waiting for him to finish.

 

“Well, I…” he says, throat constricting.

 

Holmes' nails, in contrast, are perfectly maintained crescent moons despite the fingertips stained with ink. They remind him of Mary suddenly, and something sickeningly like guilt settles in the pit of his stomach. Watson realizes he's staring and quickly looks away, eyes flitting from the strange paper models hanging from the ceiling to the desk overflowing with telegrams, unopened letters and butchered newspaper. A tea cup sits full and abandoned on today's edition.

 

It's achingly familiar.

 

The doctor looks down, angry at the nostagia spreading upward from his curling toes. For a moment, Watson is overwhelmed by regret for what he once, in his weaker moments, considered _home_. Unwillingly, as always, his eyes are drawn back to the man across from him; to the unshaven chin, the slant of dark eyebrows, the startling hazel eyes—intelligent and cutting and watching him closely.

 

It is an uncomfortably pleasant feeling. Or perhaps, pleasantly uncomfortable?

 

“You see,” Watson presses on, unsure of what he’s saying, “That would be, uh, yes. Pleasant. Or uncomfortable. The former, hopefully, if you can behave yourself.”

 

Holmes' lips curl around his pip in amusement, as he finally stops taking. In the instance between inhale and exhale, dark eyes catch the light and Watson uncounciously touches the inside of his wrist. The gesture does not go unnoticed; their eyes meet over the table and his flickers away. The detective exhales smoke, thick with annoyance.

 

Watson allows himself to wonder what Holmes' exasperation would taste like if he stood close enough to breathe it in.

 

(A little like a favorable outcome.)

 

Instead, he curls his hands around the familiar curve of his threadbare armchair and marvels at the way his fingers fall into place, into the worn grooves. How easy it is to fall into old patterns. And this is such a comforting one. The cushion designs, of course.

 

"My dear man," the detective declares wearily, as if the weight of the world rests on the curving angles his shoulders make through his crumbled suit. Perhaps it does. Once, Watson promised himself he would learn all of Sherlock's secrets. He thinks _another broken vow_ and digs his fingernails into the unravelling fabric, into the reminder of this reality.

 

"Must you act so surprised, Watson?"

 

The answer that springs to mind is, _I do_. But it tastes bitter, like liquor left in the sun or licking blood from a split lip.

 

"Yes," Watson says and looks away.

 

 


	2. part two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You see,” Watson presses on, unsure of what he’s saying, “That would be, uh, yes. Pleasant. Or uncomfortable. The former, hopefully, if you can behave yourself.”
> 
> A huff of smoke curls up from a mouth turned down with annoyance. For a moment, Watson allows himself to wonder what Holmes' exasperation would taste like if he stood close enough to breathe it in.
> 
> (A little like a favorable outcome.)

XXX

 

part two

 

XXX

 

“He’s late,” John Watson says, outraged and perhaps a little hurt.

 

Standing outside the restaurant, waiting for his third and final guest to arrive, the good doctor cannot remember the last occasion he was this terrified. It's a blind terror, directionless, erupting from him in moments of sharpening anger as the dinner approaches. The imminent clashing of realities, the approaching handshake between right and wrong.

 

Between the conventional and his vices.

 

If Watson were in a mood inclined toward introspection, he might wonder why the merging of the versions of himself is such an intimidating concept. It’s protective instinct, a simple desire to shield Mary and her mother from his consulting detective and the darker sides of himself. He has impressed upon Holmes the need for civility but rudeness is, no doubt, inevitable.

 

“Goddamn bastard,” he curses and begins to pace. He furiously considers all the possibilities; could the man be hurt? Dying? Unable to move, legs broken and bleeding out in a back alley where he won't be found until the morning sun chases the shadows back into their corners. That is another conversation they must have, another confrontation. Holmes must now watch his own back, with Watson retiring into marriage.   

 

Trouble is, to confront Sherlock Holmes is a dangerously stupid idea, particularly on matters concerning his sanity and the dear detective’s own good health.

 

Unbidden, a memory of blood and teeth.

 

Watson tightens his grip on his newly gifted wooden cane and winces. The carved designs are freshly cut and still uncomfortable when he leans his weight into it. For the sake of honesty, Watson admits he misses the comfort, the smoothness of his old walking stick. His palm is raw; maybe that is why it has been a week since he last properly touched his fiancé. Or rather, improperly.

 

Grimacing, he re-adjusts his grip.

 

It is simply something new he must get used to, another routine to add to a growing list of daily tasks that both confuse and frustrate him. He has craved the conventional for so long that, now, silent nights that are slept through till dawn and the formal politeness of compromise seem as foreign to him as a different language.

 

It shocks Watson sometimes how much one can want something and how quickly these desires expire, becoming sour and tedious.

 

(It shocks him how much he wants some things.)

 

The thought is crushed mercilessly under angry pacing footsteps.

 

He turns on his heel, suddenly, so that he has no time to reconsider, determined to go in and eat dinner with his beloved wife-to-be and enjoy himself, damn Holmes and whatever mischief he has mixed himself up in, regardless of what new challenger he is pitting himself against, what mystery he has tapped into the vein of. Watson will enjoy himself more tonight, here. 

 

 _Best for all_ , he thinks, _that this dinner does not proceed_.

 

Yet, he pauses at the door, lingering in the evening chill, to look back just once more.

 

The street remains empty.

 

XXX

 

His mother-in-law frowns deeply.

 

“Not coming?” she repeats, indignantly, as if Holmes were personally insulting her, which, god only knows, he very well might be. “Why ever not?”

 

Her voice rises sharply, just over the gentle thrum of voices.

 

Mary winces and looks around discreetly. Watson rubs his bad knee wearily, wishing more than anything that this night was already executed and done with. Just another memory, rubbing the wrong way.

 

“Most likely a case, I’m afraid,” he says with a weak smile, “Detectives don’t have the luxury of fixed hours.”

 

This whole affair would be infinently more tolerable if he weren’t itching to be out there as well, anxiety rubbing him raw at the corners. The weak smile wavers at the corners, stretched taut. The image of Holmes, smiling, teeth stained red like a wolf after feeding and yet very much the sheep, is waiting for him when his eyes close momentarily, seeking relief from the frowning face across him. 

 

“Hmmph,” his mother-in-law says, partially appeased, “I suppose.”

 

“Yes,” Watson echoes dimly, “I suppose.”

 

His gentle, lovely Mary reaches for his hand—the throbbing one—and this time when he twitches away from her, he forgets to pour himself wine. She looks confused, then hurt but Watson keeps his face turns away, pretending ignorance.

 

(It is undoubtedly, if not bliss, then safety.)

 

He wonders what Holmes would deduce from them and winces.

 

 _It is best_ , Watson thinks bitterly, _to keep worlds apart._


End file.
